


Wenn die Welt untergeht

by BlackBlood1872



Series: Torn at the Seams (TMA ficlets) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Asexual Character, Character Study, Depression, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Jon's Rib, M/M, One Shot Collection, Post-Apocalypse, Post-MAG 160, Post-Season 4, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23338474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: Even if the world collapsesI would like to stay hereStay here forever———A collection of stories set (mostly) after the end of the world. (JonMartin focused, cross-posted on Tumblr)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: Torn at the Seams (TMA ficlets) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858171
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	1. Cows

**Author's Note:**

> I've got about 2k words total for this ficlet series now so I thought I'd start putting them here. Enjoy!  
> Inspiration for the title, and the quote in the summary, from Christina Stürmer's [Wenn die Welt untergeht](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHWtk-J-wCY).  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, [Nov 2nd 2019](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/188778641220)

They stood in front of the window, watching the nightmare the world had become. Minutes passed in relative silence, if one ignored all the screaming.

"...did you see any good cows?" Jon asked absently.

Martin made a low noise. "They weren't really cows anymore."

Jon thought about the Flesh and what effect that would have in this new age, and made a similar noise. "No, I suppose not," he said faintly.


	2. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, [Nov 19th 2019](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/189182570935)

The Archivist is hungry, in the same way you feel hungry when you're bored, when there's nothing better to do. He could eat, he could go out and find countless statements within minutes, a plentiful smorgasbord in this new world. He knows that he will never go hungry again, it's all there before him, anything and everything he could ever want. The urgency from the past eight months is gone.

Jon is not hungry, in the same way you're not hungry when your stomach feels like it's twisted up in a million knots, coils upon coils of venomous snakes, thrashing and hissing and tearing you apart. He feels sick, violently nauseous, at the very thought of food, human and supernatural alike. He feels sick, and it is fear and guilt and profound, inadequate remorse, and it tastes like acid in his throat. The nerves under his skin are alight with hysteria.

He had been sat balanced on a knife's edge, and it only took the smallest mistake to push him into freefall, without even realizing he had the choice to move.


	3. Rib

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What else are you supposed to do with a spare rib?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, [Feb 1st 2020](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/190599361445), where it became a smash hit lol

"Jon," Martin says, voice level and emotionless. Jon looks over, all senses trained on the other man, checking, making sure that tone is nothing more than mundane. Martin looks unimpressed in return and he moves his gaze from Jon to the fireplace. "What is this?"

_What is what_ , Jon doesn't ask. He turns back to his book. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says airily.

The subtle sound of teeth grinding together. " _Jon_."

Jon sighs and closes his book. He looks up at the ceiling, carefully not catching Martin's eye. "It's… my rib," he confesses reluctantly.

"And _why_ is it on the mantelpiece?"

"Where else would I put it?"

"Literally _anywhere else_."

Jon glances down and Martin looks so exasperated that he has to smile. Martin narrows his eyes. The smile widens.

The next day, the rib is gone. Jon finds it pushed to the back of the desk drawer, buried under paper scraps and other debris.

Martin makes a disgusted noise when he come back to the house and finds it once again in plain view. Jon ducks his head to hide his grin and dutifully pretends to focus on the needlework spread out before him.

The game continues. Every day Jon wakes up to see his rib missing from the mantel, and spends the next twenty minutes (more or less) looking for it. So far, Martin has hid it in drawers and behind books on the shelf and once in the linen cupboard, wrapped up in a washcloth. Sometimes Jon can find it in under five minutes, and sometimes it takes him an hour. On longer searches, Martin grins at him every time Jon passes by, not even trying to suppress it, humor dancing in his eyes.

It's the liveliest he's seen his partner since they escaped from the Lonely and Jon can't help but smile back, entirely besotted, every time it happens. He'll put up with any amount of pointless searching (he already Knows it's tucked behind the canned peas) if that's what it takes to keep Martin present and happy.

Unfortunately, there's only so many places in the tiny house to hide something, and soon enough, spots repeat. Jon still makes a show of searching, but when he has an Eldritch sixth sense of Knowledge, pretending gets boring quickly. One day, about a month after this game starts, he walks into the living room to find Martin already there, not reading the book in his hands. Jon pauses, frowns for a moment, then says, "You hid it under the sink last week. Do you want to re-hide it or should I just go get it?"

Martin sighs deeply and slumps in the armchair. "Just go get it," he groans, comically exaggerated, as if he's too aggrieved by the slight against his hiding skills to move. Jon chuckles.

The rib is returned to its pride of place on the mantelpiece, ready for the next round.


	4. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, [Feb 4th, 2020](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/190656924165)

The Archivist has left the archive, but the archive has not left him. Even here, in this secret place, hidden in the peace of the Scottish Highlands. Even here, the Eye Sees.

And Jon dreams.

He watches the nightmares of others—a woman underground, a woman alone, a man with unknowable students. A woman who looks back at him with pity, who doesn't speak to him no matter how much he wishes she would. The same cast of characters, of prisoners, of regular people who never asked to be part of this terrible world.

Jon cycles through locations and people. He watches and waits for the sun to rise and free him from this place.

And then—he's in a new room, somewhere he doesn't recognize. Cloth is stuffed into the cracks around the door, the window, the floor vents; clothes and sheets and rags, anything and everything to keep this room _sealed_. It's quiet, here, save the harsh breathing of the man beside him and the slow, steady beat of a knock on the door.

"Oh," Martin says, and he sounds tired, resigned. "Of course."

Jon turns to look and—his partner is so much more than exhausted in this nightmare, this memory. His eyes are dull, empty, and he looks washed out. Faded. The longer Jon looks, the more he can tell that it's worst than pallor; Martin is translucent, a ghostly see-through, like he was when Jon found him in the Lonely.

"Oh," Jon echoes, and aches.

And then he wakes up. Jon blinks, slowly, vision clearing reluctantly. Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, a thin stripe of bright yellow falling across the floor and foot of the bed, lighting the room with a warm glow. Jon draws his gaze back, looking down at Martin who lays curled against him, forehead to sternum. His arms are wrapped around Jon, and they squeeze a little tighter when Jon presses his lips against fluffy hair. Awake, then.

"You know," Martin whispers, sleep soft, "after everything? I'm not really scared of that anymore."

Jon hums in agreement. He threads his fingers through Martin's hair, petting gently, and smiles when Martin sighs, burrowing in closer.

There are so many things to be scared of these days, bigger and looming terrors, but they have this place, this sanctuary made of each other's arms, where they can be safe. If only for a moment, if only in the quiet light of dawn.

It's enough.


	5. Wordless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, [Feb 6th 2020](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/190681831555)

After, it takes a while for Martin to start writing again.

He's free of the Lonely, now, away from Peter and the Institute and London in general, and he feels the urge to _write_ —but the words won't come. He wants to write, to weave phrase and expression together like he used to, better than, to craft something that tugs at him, where it still hurts, and turns that pain into beauty.

But it's—hard. He sits with his notebook, pencil in hand, and the blank page stares back at him, clean and empty and accusing.

While he worked for Peter, he couldn't write. There were no words in his head, nothing to put to paper, no feeling to draw from. Everything was muted and grey and he was _tired_ , down to his bones, and nothing coherent came from that place. Not that he felt like trying. He hadn't felt like doing much of anything, then.

Here, though, he's free of that. He cut those ties and he ran and he's here, now, with Jon in a cozy little house in Scotland and it's supposed to be different.

It isn't.

He had no feelings to draw from, then. He isn't sure if he has any to draw from, now. Maybe the Lonely got too deep, changed him irrevocably, dug down into the soul of him and cut out everything that made him _human_ , tore out his emotions when he wasn't aware enough to notice.

Martin knows that isn't true. He knows anew every time he catches sight of Jon, no matter what the other man is doing, and feels a surge of warmth, feels his heart beat faster, his cheeks fill with color and ache from the smiles he can't contain. He loves and he despairs and he feels so much in between those two extremes, and he knows he hasn't lost that.

He just… can't write any of it down.

Martin sighs, harsher than he expected, and closes his notebook. Jon looks up from his current project and arches one eyebrow at him. Martin grimaces. "It's nothing. I just… can't think of anything to write."

Jon sets down his needles and reaches over to grasp Martin's hand. "Take your time," he says, "this isn't the kind of damage you can undo in a few days."

"It's been three weeks."

"Compared to _how_ long spent suppressing every emotion you have? It's not going to fix itself immediately," Jon adds, more gently. "But it will get better."

Martin eyes him suspiciously. "You're sure of that?" _Do you_ _ **Know**_ _?_ Martin doesn't ask.

"I believe it will. I _hop_ _e_ it will. The future is never certain, but there's no harm in wishing for a good one. I think we deserve that, after everything we've been through."

Martin stares into Jon's earnest eyes, and attempts a smile against the uncertainty roiling inside him. It settles crookedly, but Jon brightens in response, and suddenly it shifts into something easier, lighter, as if it belongs there. As if it only needed Jon's happiness to be complete.

"Yeah," Martin whispers, wordless compositions singing in the back of his mind, waiting for the day when he's ready to hear them again. "We do."


	6. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is just. Fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague spoilers for the TMA S5 trailer (for anyone who hasn't listened to that yet).  
> Originally posted on Tumblr, [Mar 26 2020](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/613687010927984640)

They ran out of tea the day before the change. Martin knows this, knows he went out to buy some and came back to the world in tatters, broken and splayed open with all its horrors on display. He knows there is no tea, and yet—

—there are tea bags in the cupboard, boxes of loose tea leaves next to them, where he always kept them. They did not have tea before but they do now, and Martin goes through the motions with a careful blankness. If he doesn't think too hard about it, if he pretends to forget, if he doesn't quite look at the water and the leaves and the cups—then it is tea. It is nothing more, nothing less, nothing else but tea.

Jon never plays along, though. He points it out, pulls away the curtain and reveals the hand holding the puppet, and the tea is gone, again, and the thing in his hand is—

—the cup shatters on the ground, but that's alright. Every cup in their cottage is broken, now, but when he goes to check, they're all still in the cupboard, good as new. Everything in this new world is fluid like this; tea and not, broken and not. It makes him wonder what else is fluid that he hasn't noticed yet.

Jon doesn't drink the tea. Of course he doesn't, because he can See what it is, can't turn off that part of himself like Martin can. He can't fool himself into pretending that everything is fine like Martin can.

(He has years of practice. First with his mother, then with the Institute. It's easy, now, to fall back on old habits.)

Martin has drunk the tea. It tastes fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tea is a metaphor


	7. Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nice for something to be so normal and have it not be a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning dialogue comes from MAG 161 and MAG 162.  
> Originally posted on Tumblr, [May 13th 2020](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/618064996849598464)

_Click_

"—might be nice, you know, something to look back on when we're all old and sick of each other."

"You probably should have told us—"

_Click_

"—rather you stayed broadly intact."

"I'm touched. You're going soft in your old age."

"Well, you are occasionally useful. Despite your foolishness."

"Flatterer."

_Click_

"—start talking about _traditions_ , and _the values of our esteemed founder, Jimmy Magma_."

Laughter.

"Jonie.. Magnum?"

"Closer."

"Jack Magnet?"

" _That's_ the one."

_Click_

_Click_

_Click_

"Jon."

Martin's voice, quiet and level, breaks through the haze of _Sight_ that blocks his perception of _here_ and _now_. Jon blinks. He's in the living room today, tape recorders strewn across the coffee table. In all of them, their tapes have run to the end. The lights are off.

Martin leans against the arm of the couch, carrying two cups. When Jon looks up at him, he holds one out to him.

Jon frowns. "You know we ran out of—"

"It's not tea this time," Martin interrupts. "Hot water with lemon and honey. We did have some of that left before… all of this."

"Oh." Jon takes the cup. He holds it with both hands, letting the steam waft up, warming his face. He didn't realize how cold he was. He lets his eyes slip closed and breathes in the steam.

It's not a monstrous replica. It really is water, lemon, honey. It's… nice, to have something so simple, so normal, and have it not be a lie.

"Thank you," he whispers. He blinks again, slowly, and tilts a smile Martin's way. It's even smaller than it used to be, more brittle and prone to breaking, but it's real.

He likes when things are real.


	8. Sleepwalker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walking here is like walking in a dream: they walk and walk and walk, and never move an inch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime between MAG 167 and MAG 168, I guess. (I wrote this after listening to 168)  
> Also on Tumblr, [July 23 2020](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/624465752889638912)

To call this world a nightmare is to call it what it is, like saying the sky is blue (deep crimson red and staring, watching, always _watching_ —) or that water is wet (slick and thick and cloying, reaching back to drag you down—).

This world feels like a dream, the hazy disconnect from concepts forged in reality. Time has no place here, in this world where every second is measured by the next breath stolen into dying lungs, the next footfall in futile attempts to outrun the inevitable.

Walking here is like waking in a dream, endless and agonizing. He moves, one foot in front of the other, again and again, and yet the scenery does not change. He moves and the world moves with him; he steps on the same patch of ground every time, and they walk for hours and never move an inch.

It goes like this for what feels like days, what might be minutes, for what is time within a dream? What is the point of aiming for a goal, when nothing changes no matter how hard you push against the immovable barrier of air? You can walk and run and scream, but sound does not carry and the buildings seen only as a mirage in the distance never leave the horizon. You struggle and you know that everything is pointless, and then comes the moment when you blink in just the right way, and you find yourself somewhere new. Somewhere different. And yet, exactly the same.

The stretch between horrors in a thankless place, desolate and suffocating, and though Martin knows they have no need for food or water or rest, he longs from them just the same. In this place, exhaustion creeps into his bones, drags at him, makes him feel like they've been walking (not walking) for years.

(Haven't they? If not years than days, weeks, months with no end. They take breaks, pauses to sit and settle in the stillness of the empty sprawl, but it is a falsehood. A game to pass the time, a moment to sit until the restlessness lurches in his chest and he has to stand, has to continue on.)

Martin doesn't know when last he truly rested. When he last slept. Was it at the cottage, before they left? Or was it the night before the last day of the old world, and the nights after when he thought he slept were merely passed in the same grey daze as their present moments of inactivity?

He doesn't sleep now. He doesn't want to face the horrors that would follow him from this nightmare world into his own. Better, he tells himself, to stay awake and pretend, in brighter moments, that this one escape has not been tainted by the Watcher and its gaze.

He says nothing of this hope aloud, aware of how naïve it is, how futile it is. Aware that Jon, in all his brutal honestly, would not be able to keep himself from tearing that hope out of the ground and into the harsh, unrelenting light. To show off all its mangled deceit and let it wither and die under his piercing scrutiny.

Better, Martin thinks, to keep it locked tight within his chest. To let it fester and spread, dig its claws into his soul until such a time that removing it would surely remove the rest of him, too.

And then, perhaps, he'll finally be able to sleep.


End file.
